


Stand Up Against Werewolf Elitism!

by TheJoysOfAMultishipper (Amemah)



Series: Steter? Sure, I'll write Steter. [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Bloodplay, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Sick Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 04:36:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2494718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amemah/pseuds/TheJoysOfAMultishipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was karma. Peter was sure of it.</p><p>EDIT: I just realised that this sounds like a super serious fic. It's not. Its really not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stand Up Against Werewolf Elitism!

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya!
> 
> It's me again. I like the idea of Stiles being sick and Peter being himself. Hopefully you do too.  
> Just to let you know; I have no idea where (referenced) blood play came from. Seriously. No fucking idea.  
> And 200 points to you if you can find the two other fandoms mentioned :)
> 
> Let me know what you think?
> 
> Tumblr: thejoysofamultishipper.tumblr.com / amemah.tumblr.com
> 
> Hugs <3

"This is not what I had in mind when you asked if I would be interested in fucking you into the mattress on a daily basis. Friends with benefits, I believed you called it?" 

"Was there a question in there? I can't tell with the sarcasm and the annoying." 

 

Peter rolled his eyes and suspiciously laid his hand on Stiles' forehead. Stiles wrinkled said forehead, both because Peter was able to _suspiciously check someone temperature, what the fuck,_ but also because he seemed to emit human emotions.

"What." 

"Have you been taking lessons from the Hale-orphans in punctuation?" Peter drawled, wiping his hand off on his ridiculously (perfectly) tight jeans. 

 

"I never realized how much of an asshole you could be. I mean, intellectually I guess I knew... But wow." 

"Technically I'm a serial killer, Stiles. The clues are all there."

"I'm like 98 percent certain you can plead insanity on that one," 

"No need. Unless the general public is ready to deal with the, what do you call it? Paranormal, I believe, they won't have much of a case," Peter smirked, because how could he not. He had gotten away with the murder of a lot of people and neither Agent Hotchner nor Agent Booth had even knocked on his door. He supposed if they knew what he had done, they would have knocked it _down_ , but eh. Semantics. So boring.

 

"Are you technically still in a coma?" Stiles asked, genuinely curious. Did the hospital think he was kidnapped or somehow managed to escape after six years of incapacity? Adrenalin can do much, but seriously. 

Peter thought about it, but this whole conversation was giving him a headache and that just wasn't acceptable. Maybe he should have made the nurse do something about the whole escaping plan, but he supposed he couldn't really be blamed for any incomplete plans he made while _recovering from a coma._

 

" _Technically_ I think you're closer to a comatose state than me, at least right now."

"Oh right, the flu." Stiles sneezed five times, effectively sending Peter as far away from the bed as possible. It was a shame, he decided, that a bed with so many nice memories should be tainted with something a trivial as the flu. 

 

"Jesus fucking Christ, why didn't you just give me the bite anyway?" Stiles growled and closed his eyes, desperately trying to will his own headache away. Hey, the spark has to be useful for something, right? 

 

"Because you would have killed me, become the Alpha and kill me _again_ when you discovered what I was doing to Lydia," Peter explained reasonably. 

"Probably." His answer was little more than a cough, and he cringed at the cold pain in the back of his lungs. "But then again you couldn't have known that," Stiles whined. Peter rolled his eyes, slowly making his way back to the feverish boy. 

 

"This is just the flu talking, Stiles," He still hoped that Stiles would take the bite, and if the boy knew what was best for him; he would stop tempting Peter right now.

"I know."

 

Peter opened his mouth to say something, but hesitated. 

"Would you like some... Soup? Is that what you humans do when you're sick?" Stiles stared at the older man, baffled. 

 

"What."

"Would. You. Like. Some. Soup?" Annoyed Peter was the best Peter. It tended to end in either orgasms or bloodbaths. Stiles was happy either way (He made sure the blood was from bad people, don't worry). Sometimes they even combined the two, but Stiles figured thinking about bloodplay wasn't the best course of action right now. The knives were still being sterilized. Peter did also look extremely uncomfortable in addition to annoyed, so he decided to cut him a break.

 

"Nope, I'm fine. If you desperately want me to have something in my mouth, though..." Stiles waggled his eyebrows and smiled at Peter’s exasperated expression. What? He dared anyone to think of _mind-blowing_ night number 46 and not get turned on.

 

"You would sneeze and accidentally bite my dick off, Stiles."

"Fine. You can suck me off then." 

"You would pass out."

"You are making me feel inadequate and I don't like it." 

 

Peter sighed and laid down next to Stiles on the bed. 

"What are you doing?" To say Stiles was skeptical was an understatement. Peter really wasn't that caring, in case you didn't know.

"I'm..." Peter was lost for words and Stiles was three seconds away from laughing when the worst coughing fit yet occurred. "Providing comfort," Peter said, vaguely disgusted with the idea of _feelings_ and _emotions_ , but still willing to pat Stiles' back awkwardly. 

 

"If I didn't feel like death was coming for me, I would laugh so unbelievably hard, you have no idea, dude,"

"Do not call me 'dude'"

"Dude." 

"Getting involved with a seventeen year old was the stupidest thing I have ever done,"

"Was?"

"Getting in this bed was pretty stupid too," 

 

Stiles leveled a look on him that said more than a thousand words ever will and rolled his eyes. Peter was surprised they were still attached. Surprised and happy? They were nice eyes. He didn't like to think about that too much. 

 

"Anyway," Stiles continued, ignoring Peter, "You know why you agreed to this."

"Really?"

"Mhm. It was my mouth, right? What was the word, _sinful_?" the laughter was evident in his voice, even though it was raspy. Peter didn’t like to be reminded of Stiles’ mortality, but the way his eyes crinkled in amusement made him feel a bit better. (No, he was _definitely_ not thinking about that. _Ever_.)

 

"We agreed things said during sex would stay during sex." Peter groaned, pulling the duvet up to help with the shivering Stiles was winning Olympic gold in. 

"That was a stupid rule," 

"Yes, I agree. But Derek got tired of the 'sexually loaded' conversation, and I got tired of McCall calling me a ‘cradle robber’. And for some reason you're fond of my nephew." Peter's forehead creased in confusion, and Stiles used his thumb to sooth the line away.

"His jawline _is_ divine." 

 

This time it was Peter who leveled a look, and Stiles who smirked. 

"What? Don't worry though, you do that thing with your tongue." He reasoned.

Peter preened, though he would never admit it. 

 

"And don't you forget it."


End file.
